He couldn’t risk it. He’d treat her carefully and help her reach pleasure, all while doing his best to fill her with an heir that would make her unwilling to leave his side.
Resolved, Frederick set out for home — stepping over Sir Francis, still on the rug — and ignoring the churning in his guts as he tried to imagine how long he’d need to conceal his true self and desires from his wife.
Chapter 7
In the drawing roomof the FitzOsbern townhouse, Marianne mindlessly played the beautiful new harp Frederick had acquired for her use. She had a small one, also just purchased by her husband, in her rooms, but she hoped to catch sight of him when he returned that evening.
She needed to see him again. What she’d done in the bath unsettled her and made her fear — irrationally — that she’d lost him for good by thinking of another man.
When Frederick entered the house, he initially rushed past the drawing room with great vigor as if in search of something. But soon, he drifted back, his movements jerky.
“Marianne,” he said, standing in the doorway and taking her in.
She paused in her playing and moved to rise.
“No, stay where you are,” he said, his steps slow. He was acting as if she were a small animal or child who might be afraid of him! “Play for me.”
As he lowered to a chair near her harp, Marianne played a melody she thought he might like. It was a jaunty tune. Well, as jaunty as a song on the harp can be.
“What did you do today?” asked Frederick, his eyes roving over her as she plucked. She’d dressed for dinner hoping to see him, then eaten alone when the staff informed her that the duke took his meals at his club. She had arranged her hair and kept her gloves pristine, all ready for a husband who never came.
Marianne feared she was well on her way to a broken heart. Or a disappointed one, at best.
“I counted the number of dresses in my wardrobe. Then the shoes and stockings.”
“When you have a need for more, I’ll establish accounts for you. Simply tell my man where. He’ll set it all up.”
Marianne nodded and whispered her thanks.
“And then what did you do?”
She thought back, and her mind snagged on that moment in the bath. Such a tale would hardly prove suitable for one’s husband,especially not when it involved the fantasy of another man’s nude body, commanding pose, and hard member!
“The garden. I walked in the garden and catalogued which bulbs I’d like to plant.”
She thought she heard her husband mutter, “I have a bulb I’d like to plant,” but she doubted he had an interest in horticulture, so she didn’t ask him to repeat himself. She must have misheard. Seeming dim before Frederick might send her sobbing into her pillows.
In trying to manage a conversation with her husband, Marianne’s song had changed from a popular tune to something of her own creation. A lonely cry to the universe that she’d started playing shortly after taking up the harp.
“That melody,” whispered Frederick. His eyes were lidded, and he watched her with an expression that made her wonder if her dress was actually sheer.
Marianne fidgeted in her seat. “What about it?” she asked, half hoping he liked it, half fearful he might break her heart by disparaging her own composition. The composition of her soul.
And then he shocked her. Frederick Clare, Duke of FitzOsbern, slid from his chair to the floor.
“Frederick, are you unwell?” she asked, frozen in fear for his life.
“I’ve never been better,” he said, crawling towards her. “Keep playing.”
As if her notes were the thing keeping her husband alive, Marianne plucked out her song, all while watching him intently.
“That sound,” he said, closing his eyes and allowing his head to hang before he resumed his advance. “You have bewitched me.”
“I didn’t mean to.”
He was at her slippered feet, toying with the pooled hem of her dress. It swished against her ankles and made her shiver.
“The ankle that necessitated our marriage,” said Frederick, lowering his whole body as if to bow. He placed a kiss on those bones, right over her stocking.
